


These Staccato Echoes

by deliverfiction (shikinami)



Category: Jrock, the GazettE
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4816727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shikinami/pseuds/deliverfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s in love with you and he doesn’t even know it. You suppose that makes a lot of sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Staccato Echoes

Sometimes he holds your hand a little longer than what’s normally comfortable. Or you catch him with a fond smile on his face for a split second when you do something clumsy, as you often would. You can’t remember at which point exactly you started to notice these things. Not that it should bother you—you’ve been friends for years. Best friends, even. It comes with the job description.  
  
You also notice that any dead air between you two, while still familiar and comfortable, has gone thicker lately. Has been for a couple of years now. Like there was something that needed to be said.  
  
The next time it happens, you ask him if there’s anything wrong.  
  
He looks at you, eyes narrowed, as he shifts the band across his face. "Does it seem like there’s anything wrong?"  
  
You think for a while and shake your head, immediately feeling stupid. Maybe it’s jitters getting to you. It happens when you don’t feel so confident, like right now. There is little air in this small cramped room a world away from home, and things don’t look so promising with your usual gear not with you. You’re not the one with the cloth covering your nose, but you feel so oxygen-deprived.  
  
You blame it on the hot weather and your costume. You tell him that, in the most colorful way that you can, which means suffixing -ing to the word  _fuck_  every noun.  
  
He laughs, out coming a low rumble. "Idiot, let’s just get this over with," he says, pushing you towards the group huddle.  
  
You don’t complain about the warm weight of his palm in the middle of your back.  
  
  


* * *

 

  
Takanori bangs at your door just four hours before you need to get ready to fly to your fifth country. You contemplate pretending you weren’t at the room, but the midget’s all but screaming bloody murder. Frankly it’s just embarrassing, even though there’s nobody else unfortunate enough to understand his Japanese babbles aside from you.  
  
You open the door and find how Asian-flushed he is.  
  
"Your dumb best friend is getting into a fight with Yuu-san, get him before Yutaka does."  
  
You groan but don your jacket and boots anyway, and if anybody had anything to say about your flowery board shorts, then they can say it to your face. No reason to let Yutaka find that mess himself—he’s got enough shit on his plate as it is and is never pleasant after dealing with minor band altercations. Sometimes you wonder why he hasn’t decked any of you yet, when he can easily take any and all of you down in a couple of hours.  
  
Takanori doesn’t lead you to where they are, instead you follow the sound of Yuu’s loud, idle threats echoing in the hallway. You can only pray that there aren’t a lot of hotel patrons in the surrounding rooms. When you get there, you see a mousy roadie standing in front of Yuu, looking more amused that his seniors were fighting than wanting to actually break up the fight.  
  
You sigh, putting a hand over your dumb best friend’s shoulder. His head snaps to your direction, looking ready to bite a head off until he realizes it’s you. He scoffs and angrily strides to goodness knows where, swatting your hand a little bit too hard.  
  
Even as you get back to your own room, your skin still stings.  
  
  
  
  
On your flight to France, you ask Takanori what the hell happened last night. He raises a brow, and you just tell him gossip hadn’t reached you yet.  
  
Takanori gives a malicious little grin. "Somebody got accused as being gay and he didn’t like it, so he threw a hissy fit." He snorts. "As if that’s such a big issue. Closet cases always liked to prove something."  
  
You narrow your eyes but don’t say anything. Takanori likes spouting nonsense that sometimes provoked people or started drama, but you don’t rise to the bait and pry further. Not when you’re not sure of the answer to the question you’re itching to ask.  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
The last day of your world tour, he doesn’t talk to you. Not during the rehearsals or the brief moments you pass each other backstage, though it wasn’t as if there had been time. The two of you had very minimal contact after his fight with Yuu in Brazil. You have no fucking clue why. It doesn’t seem like he’s angry, since he helps you out with your equipment as you pack your things up.  
  
People and things move so fast that the day ends with you failing to ambush him. Everybody is so tired that the drinking session supposedly scheduled gets forgotten. No chance to corner him all the more now. Defeated, you retire to your room and take a shower, looking forward to going home.  
  
When you emerge from the bathroom, you find him face down on the other double bed, with his own belongings strewn all over that side of the room. He doesn’t even bother taking his shoes off.  
  
Suddenly you feel heat coiling up from your belly to your throat. He’d purposely avoided you the whole day and now he’s still not talking, despite being highly aware of your presence. You know, because he hasn’t moved an inch from his uncomfortable position since you went out the bath.  
  
With a deep breath, you count up to one hundred. You reach up until sixty-three before he starts shuffling and heads to the bathroom. In your most modulated voice, you demand what the hell he’s being so silent for.  
  
He turns to you, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his ears. "Just because there’s silence doesn’t mean there’s nothing to say."  
  
You feel your patience wearing thin. Through gritted teeth, you ask why the fuck he just doesn’t say anything then.  
  
"I don’t know how to say it," he answers, with the sincerity of an innocent man slated to die. With that, he disappears to the bathroom and stays there until after an hour and a half. You wouldn’t know, because you’ve furiously blown through two cases of Pianissimo on the balcony until much later.  
  
By the time you return, he’s already fast asleep with his back to you, and you just drop dead from the sheer annoyance of losing in his mind games.  
  


* * *

  
  
You land at the Narita airport at five in the afternoon without much fanfare. No admirers or paparazzi lurking about, only the dull sound of the conveyor belt as you get your bags. You suddenly remember, with growing horror, that you hitched a ride with him going here. You haul your belongings and resolve to tell him that you’ll just get a cab or something.  
  
As you look for him, he suddenly appears behind you and says, "I’ll just get the car, wait at the exit." His first proper words to you after twenty-six hours.  
  
He’s gone before you can reply. Somehow it doesn’t occur to you to text him saying that you’ll be fine and that you’ll just get a taxi... despite the numerous times you’ve complained about their exorbitant fees. What occurs to you is that you’re being extremely weird about your best friend right now.  
  
You do as he says and wait at the exit. When he drives up to the curb and you finish loading up all of your shit to his car, you think to ask why he didn’t just ask you to come with him to the parking. That would’ve been the easiest for you both.  
  
What comes out of your mouth though, as you settle in the passenger’s seat, was a rather direct accusation of him being weird as fuck for the past couple of days. Not even a less enraged but more direct ' _Why are you avoiding me?'_  In frustration, you clamp your lips to a thin line to stop yourself from projecting all the more.  
  
He just laughs as he drives on, and you note the nervous tinge in his voice. "I’m sorry." You’re surprised, because you expect outright denial, but it  _is_  in character for him to apologize for things that aren’t his fault. "It appears that I have a big gay crush on my best friend of almost two decades now and I didn’t even know it."  
  
It becomes one of those moments that’s supposed to be heavy, but doesn’t turn out to be. Not for you, anyway. Your anger subsides and is replaced with immediate understanding. You contemplate making him laugh by teasing him how Takanori’s a slut who’d probably give him some sort of obscure STD, but even you realize that this is not the time to be fucking around like that.  
  
You tilt your head slightly and get a glimpse of his face. His eyes are directly on the road, as they should be, but he has this weird half-smile, half-grimace that he does when feeling constipated. Usually you see that when he’s scared of something. You wish there was a more roundabout way to tell him that it’s going to be all right. Instead, you narrow your eyes at him and ask him if he’s okay.  
  
"Yeah, I suppose. All things considered." He sighs, sounding quite relieved that you didn’t use your sharp tongue this particular instance. The two of you are quiet for around ten minutes or so, until he turns his stereo on to a reasonable volume. Loud enough to distract you from your thoughts, but quiet enough to welcome a conversation.  
  
You wait a while, then ask if he intended to do anything about it.  
  
"Admit it to myself first," he says, again with the trembling laugh. "I hadn’t thought farther than that."  
  
You hum and nod your head. He’s of the belief that getting things off one’s chest would make them feel better. You also believe the same, but your outlet was never words. Not honest ones, anyway.  
  
After another while, you ask him if he wanted  _you_  to do anything about it.  
  
"No," he replies, suddenly shy.  
  
Well, he must’ve expected something, otherwise he wouldn’t lock you inside a vehicle that’ll travel for at least 30 minutes. You tell him that, in those exact same words, and he goes from pale to beet red in a matter of seconds. You smile. He still hasn’t gotten the hang of hiding his heart under his sleeve.  
  
"I wanted to make sure you got home safe," he says with a small voice. "Plus I don’t want Takanori bitching at me about you bitching at him about expensive cab fares."  
  
You let out a small cackle, and a small, genuine smile forms on his otherwise tense face. For a while you fall silent, thinking of what to say next. You turn your head to the front and notice that a queue has formed leading to the toll gates. The car stops in front of the last one in line.  
  
He sighs then. "I hope this doesn’t change things... make you uncomfortable or anything." It’s a question, but one he didn’t want the answer to. You spot it well enough because lord knows how many times in a day you do that yourself. You feel your ego boosted, realizing how you’re actually rubbing off on him.  
  
You ask him why you’d be uncomfortable when you’re his best bud, and he’s yours. That you couldn’t imagine anything changing between the two of you.  
  
He lets out a relieved half-sigh and half-laugh. "Yeah," he says, "Just checking." You look at him, and notice how he’s avoiding to face you. Even then you can see his smile is a little sad now. The car moves forward.  
  
Although, you add, it  _has_  been a while since you’ve seen his dick. The last time was in high school, if you remember correctly.  
  
He splutters and the car stops abruptly in front of the card dispenser. "What?" All of a sudden he goes back to being the shade of a tomato, hiding it by turning back as he claimed his toll card. You laugh at him openly. "You’re such an asshole," he mutters, running a hand over his face.  
  
You pat him on the shoulder and leave your hand there after. He relaxes and shoots you an indignant look. You beam at him because you see how his mouth trembles from suppressing a grin anyway.  
  
You tell him that it’s better to deal with this unmanly shit with some grub and a beer or twenty, and that you’ll be staying over if you get so pissed you couldn’t stand anymore. Which always happens whenever you decide to get near any alcoholic beverage.  
  
"Idiot," he says with a chuckle, "Good thing we’ve got a few days off." The bar raises and his engine revs, as he drives off to the nearest convenience store.

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted at [Livejournal](http://deliverfiction.livejournal.com/7991.html).


End file.
